Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1887-05-03
1alfs and Sketthes.
APROvgNCE ROSE .

"Where have | seen her before ="
thought Vance Erskine. as he pressed
forward in the crowd. There was "stand-
ing room only"
He had wandered into the music-hall
after long, dull day at the bank, spent
in puzZlIng his brain over accounts. He
felt a sudden longing for a new experience
"a passionate impulse to break through
resiraint-that had more than once led
him into thOrnv ways and perilous paths,
from which he had been glad 10 come back
TO 8 safe cOnven'ianality once more.
There was young girl singing an ltai-
ian song She was clad in simple white
gown, aud there was white rose in her
dusky hair Her soft dark eyes were full
Of unconscious yearuing. she did not see
the audience. apparently, but ooked away
to some haunting scene. The tender grace
of a day that was dead entolded her.
Er-kine seemed TO follow that gaze. His
Imagination kindled again. This is what
he saw: A rose garden in fair Provence.
that land Of song and story. white mist
was curling up from it under the sun
shine ike a curtain it was lifted. and the
tairesi scene Erskne had ever looked upon
was stretched out before his eager eyes.
\ wilderness of roses-that was all !.
Impossible To describe the riot OF color,
the wealth Of incense. There was gray
castle in the distance; but Ersklne d
not look al that. Neither did his glance
dwell long on the flowers, for there was
a young girl there gathering them. and
his eyes met those other eyes, soft and
dark, tender a. a southern night, and rest
ed there.
There was tender reserve. almost sad
ness. IN the face, and the flush on the
cheeks was not deeper than that of the
blush rose she held IN her hand. Ersklne
was not an artist; he was on'y bank
clerk on a holiday; but that picture was
photographed on his soul.
She stood by moss grown fountain.
whore a wipgless dragon spoutcd up
silverv stream amid dripping wreaths Of
maiden hair Huge cypress trees stood in
the back ground; but in the Illuminated
space among the flowers was this gracious
figure in dulI-blue gown, that defined
the soft curves and rounded outlines.
What irony OF fate had transplanfed her
from the wilderness OF roses to a London
music hall ? He felt at once an lmpera-
tive need knowing the story.
] ne VOICE Sbditu up INV q ihi n " ili''l
the sunbeam. A storm of applause fol
lowed and The Young glrl seemed suddenly
recalled to the present. She glanced ab N
timidlv and bowed slightly. There were
no smrks or bold glances. She glided
away quietly, and the encore did not bring
her back
Nuucc east one glance at the glittering
blonde who followed him and then he
rushed out Of the hall. He astonished the
nearest florist by emptying his purse
not too well filed-for roses. Dark,
velvety Jacqueminots and cream white
blossoms, mingled with others, pink as a
girl $ blush. in his hurried grasp.
"Ah, hallo," said voice near him. as
he paused at the stage entrance, wonder
ING vaguely a. to what should be his next
step. why. Vance, my boy, are you Il
IA captive TO her train too?'
"Oh. get out" answered Vance. i'm
patiently, locking around at pompous
locking individual with a heavy rubcund
vi~ag, of scant hair. He was man of
IS, and an authority on change. but he had
hv N, means laid aside the follies Of
youth.
.Bah-flowers, said MIR. Zachary
Sheldon, looking at the roses; "they
would like diamonds better"
Come" said Vance, tiercely, aston
ished at the sudden fire in his heart, mo
sneers, I'm not in the mood for them"
well, we won't QUARREL" said Shell
don, with II mirthiul laugh. "Of course
it's the blonde Lillian"
An unconscious feeling of relet came
into Vance heart.
The other one is a poem-Rosalnd,
beautiful Rosalnd, She's a flower, sun
beam-no. too pale for sunbeam-a sill
yer mourbcam. She SAYS
AT lhese words Vance regretted his bad
humor This man could help HIM. lie
knew the Italian nightingale.
II say. sheldon, excuse my grutlncss !;
somebody stepped on my corns just now.
" hat does she say?' he asked, eagerly.
II hat he cannot sing her songs in a
strange land; that she has left her soul
among the roses. All, you rascal, |
-r, K So, Rl not for the blonde
: j ~: ~
NJ. lo.' eagerly cried
Van , was the very way 1t